


Thy middle term

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Jealousy, Lord/Vassal Dynamics, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Your otp is not monogamous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-05 00:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5354807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gelmir is used to not getting Fingon to himself, but this is beyond the pale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> 0\. The incredibly niche pairing of Fingon/Gelmir/Húrin, a special lord/vassal power dynamic goulash cooked up specially for my dear sath’s birthday.  
> 1\. Or: The file that has been sitting in my WIP folder as 1king2vassals.docx for like three months.   
> 2\. This gets my fave 'your otp is not monogamous' tag that I slap on every time Fingon is sleeping with someone other than Maedhros. Yes, this fic assumes background Maedhros/Fingon, but it also assumes them in an open relationship. Details on Fingon/Gelmir can be found here: [1](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1915647), [2](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2064696), [3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2092197). Fingon's not practicing infidelity, but he's also not practicing monogamy, yada yada.

Gelmir was a guard, so Gelmir knew patience.

Gelmir was a soldier, so Gelmir knew unflinching acceptance.

So Gelmir learned the art of waiting, of patience and silence, and of utter acceptance of his commander's truths. And Gelmir had long since accepted the fact that he would never be first in his lord’s heart. It was the first truth, the most important truth, the acceptance of which Fingon had made a condition of taking him to his bed.

“You are dear to me, oh my guard,” he had said often, his voice full of warmth and sincerity. “But I cannot be yours, and the moment that feels unbearable to you must be the moment this ends. I care about you far too much to break your heart.”

“Of course,” Gelmir always said, and, “I understand.” His understanding was true enough, but his acquiescence was a lie.

For if he had truly obeyed Fingon’s orders, their affair never would have started; because from the moment Gelmir knew his prince, he loved him. And from the moment he loved him, it became unbearable to know that Fingon was not his own. From the moment he loved Fingon, heartbreak was ensured. 

But unbearable, and in Fingon’s arms, was better than bearable but loving from afar. If he must suffer, he might as well do it with the knowledge of Fingon’s warm lips and merry laugh and skillful hands; he might as well do it knowing the beauty of falling asleep at his lord’s side, his head cradled against Fingon’s bare breast, however rare that experience might be. He knew that the nights were scant that he would have Fingon to himself, and he knew that Fingon must be shared – though sharing would imply some sort of equity, and he knew he was no equal to Maedhros Fëanorion, the cold lord of Himring.

These facts he could accept, and with these facts he learned patience and kept his silence, and his heart, to himself.

Then came the vassal from Dor-lómin.

He came with his hair like flax and his cornflower eyes, his shoulders broad and his build stocky; nothing prepossessing about this Man, Gelmir told himself, and yet – and yet there was an alertness to him, a sharpness to his gaze and a swiftness to his tongue that made him unable to be dismissed as a brutish beast. Gelmir watched him warily, as many at Barad Eithel had watched his father too, untrusting of this Man who treated so casually with their king. It was not that Húrin was disrespectful – it was clear that he revered Fingon, as so many did – but he did not keep himself apart in such a way that made it clear he knew well the lowliness of his station. All knew that their king loathed formality and rolled his eyes at etiquette, but this simply meant it was upon his subjects to follow protocol despite him. Fingon might ignore his standing, but he was too well loved for any who followed him to allow for disrespect. As soon as Húrin made his clumsy bow before the throne, Gelmir watched him, and he did not like what he saw.

Gelmir himself dared not be familiar with the King, even when Fingon sighed, and laughed, and tweaked his ear and told him to call him by name rather than title. Gelmir watched Húrin laugh with the king and resented him the ease which came so naturally to him. Fingon was lively in his interactions with the Man, waving away all overtures of formality, drinking Dwarvish ale instead of the rich wines of the plains, and exchanging bawdy jokes in lieu of diplomatic exchanges. Gelmir knew better than most how much Fingon chafed at the formality and stiffness of rule, and with this Man who had scarcely twenty summers, Fingon could find an ease that Gelmir rarely saw outside of Fingon’s private chambers.

Gelmir decided that he _loathed_ the vassal.

 

* * *

 

The Great Hall had nearly emptied, and it was soon just Húrin and Fingon by the vast fireplace, deep into their cups, drinking deep and telling tales. Gelmir was not on duty that night, but he had quietly relieved the king’s guard of his duties and taken up position at the door, his pike clenched in white-knuckled fingers. He had just managed to exhale his anger at the way Húrin spoke to Fingon – so intimate, so jovial – when he glanced again at the pair by the fire and saw that Húrin’s hand was on Fingon’s knee.

And that Fingon, far from appearing to mind, had his own hand on Húrin’s arm.

Gelmir tried to swallow, but it felt as though a rock had lodged in his throat. He could tell from the brightness of Fingon’s eyes and the flush to his skin that his king was feeling the effects of the drink, and from Húrin’s bright cheeks and rolling laugh that the man was hardly sober himself. Which might explain the way his hand was rubbing boldly over Fingon’s knee and then moving higher, stroking up the king’s thigh.

Gelmir could no longer contain himself, his outrage so brilliant as to white out his vision. Striding across the room and pivoting sharply, he brought the shaft of his pike down across Húrin’s wrist, pulling it just short of a severing blow, but arresting its progress up Fingon’s leg.

Húrin swore, and Fingon looked up, surprised.

“Forgive my intrusion, your highness,” said Gelmir, managing to speak around the stone in his throat. “But the Man grows overly familiar, and would do to be reminded of etiquette.” He fixed his gaze on Húrin, whom he was pleased to see looked both uncertain and angry.

“I presume nothing,” said Húrin, in accents that made Gelmir wince. “Surely his majesty reserves the right to make his own objections known without a servant stepping in.”

“Servant?” Gelmir’s hands twitched on the pike, the blade dipping low, and Húrin pulled his own hand back hastily. “How dare you, whelp? I am personal guard to the High King, soldier of Barad Eithel since before your great-grandfather gasped his first breath into the mud, and you, churl – ”

“Gelmir.” Fingon’s voice was mild but stern, and Gelmir pulled himself upright into a salute, his cheeks burning. “I appreciate your loyalty and your concern for my person, but I promise I am more than capable of defending my own honor. And I will not have you speak so – or so accuse – my guests.”

“This human,” said Gelmir stiffly, “presumes too much. You are overly generous, your highness, and you allow – ”

“I allow that which I do not object to,” said Fingon, still mild. “Trust that I am perfectly capable of identifying for myself an unwanted advance.”

Gelmir saluted again, his humiliation flaring sharper than ever. “I merely have your best interests at heart, my king.”

“I know that.” Fingon’s voice softened, and he held out a hand to Gelmir, who ignored it, standing rigid, and Fingon sighed. “Have a drink with us.”

Gelmir saw Húrin glance sideways at the king, as if this idea was not entirely pleasing to him, and outraged blazed anew. “If it is so ordered, my king.”

Fingon rolled his eyes. “Yes, my guard,” he said, wearily. “I  _order_  you to relax with us, if that's what it takes. For Eru’s sake, Gelmir, put up your pike and sit. You seem like you could use a drink.”

And so, unwilling as he was but more unwilling to leave, Gelmir sat. Gelmir drank.

And Gelmir watched as Fingon laughed, and clinked his glass, and Húrin made a comment, and before long, Húrin’s hand was once again on the king’s thigh, and a glass of ale later, Gelmir could see Fingon smiling at Húrin, practically rubbing into his touch, and there was not enough Dwarvish ale in the world to make this acceptable. It was not right for this human to touch his king as if he knew him, as if he had done it before – and Gelmir’s mind went blank at the implication, just as Fingon turned to Húrin, his hand brushing over the hair exposed by Húrin’s tunic laces, which were gaping open in the heat from the fire.

Gelmir choked back his revulsion at the sight, but Fingon seemed to have no such compunctions, running his fingers over the thick golden pelt. “Does it keep you warm in the winter?” he asked, half amused and half curious, and Húrin laughed.

“Not half so warm as you do, my lord,” he said, and Fingon laughed too, and leaned close, and Gelmir blinked, because Fingon's lips were far too close to Húrin's. When Fingon closed the distance between them and kissed Húrin, Gelmir closed his eyes and wished for death.

When he opened his eyes, it was clear that Mandos was indeed a merciless entity, because he was still alive, and Húrin was kissing Fingon back enthusiastically.

Fingon seemed to remember himself as Gelmir drained his glass to the dregs and dropped it onto the table, and he pulled back from Húrin. Húrin was flushed and his eyes were wide and bright, and Gelmir resented him, in that moment, every bit as much as he had ever resented the king’s cousin.

“My apologies for the impropriety,” murmured Fingon, relinquishing the hold he’d had on Húrin’s chin. “The drink and the heat got the better of me. Gelmir – I think that I shall be retiring soon, if you wish to be relieved for the evening.” He had clearly forgotten that Gelmir was not technically on duty that night anyway. “I will be going to my rooms, and – ” He glanced at Húrin, and the look the man returned had Gelmir on the edge of his seat, burning with furious jealousy.

“Forgive me,” he said, the liquor making his words over-loud. “But I do not trust you alone with this  _Man_.”

Húrin made an irritated gesture, but Fingon smiled, and in that moment he was every inch a king – and then his eyes sparkled like a boy’s. “In that case,” he said cheerfully. “You are more than welcome to join us.”

 

* * *

 

Gelmir hated the vassal.

And yet –

And yet he couldn’t deny that there was something profoundly compelling in watching those broad hands on Fingon’s smooth brown skin, something almost erotic in the coarse ugliness of the Man beside Fingon’s beauty. His lack of appreciation for Húrin’s looks was apparently not shared; Fingon clearly found Húrin not at all displeasing given the way his eyes were shining and his hands were eager, touching the man’s thick waist and brushing through his fair, almost Vanyarin hair. At times, Gelmir couldn’t tell if he was repulsed or titillated by the contrasts between the two of them, though he knew it was nothing but envy that he felt at seeing that familiar body touched by another.

But he was not forgotten.

“Gelmir,” Fingon was saying, “I did not invite you up simply to watch.” There was laughter in his voice, as there often was in bed; Fingon was always at his most joyous in moments of pleasure. “Unless, of course, that is your fancy, but I would much prefer – ” He gestured, and Gelmir was at his side at once, kneeling awkwardly on the bed.

“Still clothed,” said Fingon teasingly, hooking his fingers into Gelmir’s belt and drawing him close. “Such a perennial problem for you.” He wrapped an arm around Gelmir’s waist and pulled him against him, nuzzling at his throat and starting to undo his laces with a practiced hand.

Gelmir closed his eyes and tried to let pure happiness wash over him, the joy that always sang through him as brilliantly as it had the first time Fingon had touched him. There could be nothing ill with the world when his king touched him like this, nothing was strong enough to overcome the bliss of knowing he was wanted by one such as Fingon.

Even so –

Gelmir opened his eyes, and his gaze locked on the clear blue stare of Húrin, who was at Fingon’s back, his hands sliding in a proprietorial way over Fingon’s hips. Fingon, always swift to undress, was naked and rolling his hips back into Húrin’s touch in a lazily demanding way, even as he kissed Gelmir and slid calloused fingers down his back. Húrin grunted and ran a hand down the curve of Fingon’s buttocks, and Gelmir jerked in Fingon’s arms, suddenly aware of Húrin’s intent and made livid by it.

That this common, arrogant, unlovely mortal could presume to so touch his king, to so take his king, something Gelmir himself would never  _dare_ – Gelmir nearly choked on his indignation and resentment, but Fingon seemed to be feeling no such reservations. He moaned, his breath hot on Gelmir’s neck as Húrin fumbled artlessly between his legs.

“Unguent,” Fingon said breathlessly. “Bedside table.” He kissed Gelmir as Húrin reached for the pot, and Gelmir kept one eye fixed on the Man all the while, even as Fingon bent low and began to press kisses to Gelmir’s chest and lower, his tongue sliding over the skin of Gelmir’s stomach.

Húrin stared right back at him.

Húrin held Gelmir’s gaze as he slid a finger into Fingon, as Fingon rumbled out a laugh and pushed his hips back for more. He held Gelmir’s gaze as he stroked his thick cock and then positioned himself between Fingon’s buttocks, and his eye contact never wavered as he slid home.

Gelmir was burning, but it was difficult to say what was anger and what was desire, as Fingon’s mouth closed around him and his king’s breath came heavy and hot, making low, pleasurable sounds deep in his throat. He felt he should object to seeing the king used in such a way, for all it felt that Fingon still presided over the whole debauched scene with utter control, even as his movements grew wilder.

He had never heard Fingon make such noises.

The fact that Húrin finished early, and before Fingon, should not have given Gelmir was much pleasure as it did. The man was young, after all, over eager, under experienced, and overwhelmed, and everything about mortal lives was swift and premature, so why should love be any different? Gelmir’s delight lasted only as long as it took for Húrin to open his eyes again, loosening his grip on Fingon’s hips as he slipped himself free. The sight of the man’s seed dripping from between Fingon’s thighs caused the heated revulsion to rise in Gelmir again.

“Sorry,” muttered Húrin, his hand stroking over Fingon’s back. “Let me – ”

“Don’t worry yourself,” said Fingon sitting up and licking his lips before leaning back to kiss Húrin with a warm and open mouth. Gelmir felt a certain satisfaction that Húrin could no doubt taste Gelmir on Fingon’s tongue, and he reached for Fingon’s heavy arousal, determined to give his king the pleasure that the Man had not.

“I have a better idea,” said Fingon, turning back to Gelmir and pushing him down. When he straddled Gelmir’s hips, Gelmir’s mind blanked out for a moment. Never before had it gone this way, and never would he have asked it. But then Fingon was sinking down on him, hot and eager, and Gelmir could feel the slickness of the unguent and of Húrin’s seed, and then all he cared for was the sight of Fingon’s strong thighs tightening around his waist, and the way the king gasped as he rocked his hips and started to ride Gelmir in feverish, quick movements.

Húrin settled at Fingon’s back again, kneeling between Gelmir’s knees, and he wrapped an arm around Fingon’s waist to grasp his cock. Fingon groaned and tossed his head back on Húrin’s shoulder, his heavy black braids spilling over Húrin’s chest, the gold flashing in the low light.

He was beautiful, and when Gelmir saw a certain look in Húrin’s eyes, he knew that the Man was viewing Fingon with as much worship as he; as much worship as Fingon deserved.

It was in this single moment of total understanding and empathy, as Fingon arched his back and clutched at Húrin’s thigh, groaning, that Gelmir found his climax.

 

* * *

 

Gelmir had thought to make the point that the bed was two small for three, but he was too sleepy and at any rate, it wasn’t true. Fingon may not have been known like the king of Nargothrond for his luxurious tastes, but a large and comfortable bed was an indulgence he had always insisted on. Gelmir let his head come to rest on Fingon’s breast as the king settled back against the pillows and looped an arm around him.

“Are you well, my guard?” Fingon murmured, stroking his hair gently and pressing a kiss to his brow.

“Aye,” said Gelmir, his lips over Fingon’s heart. “I am well enough.”

“And thee, my vassal?”

Húrin curled against Fingon’s other side, his tawny head on Fingon’s shoulder. “Aye, milord.”

Fingon chuckled, and lay back. “And oh, what a lucky lord am I. Had I but known what my rule would bring, why, I wouldn’t have been half so mad at Maedhros for putting me in such a position.” Both Húrin and Gelmir shifted uncomfortably, and Fingon laughed, and kissed them each tenderly. He fell asleep with the speed of one used to long campaigns and short nights, leaving his companions to their thoughts.

“Thou art not worthy of him,” said Gelmir softly, after a long silence, and Húrin stirred. “But then, neither am I.”

“True enough.”

“If thou wilt protect him, with every strength thou hast, I shall not resent thee overmuch.”

“I would give my life for him,” the young man whispered, and Gelmir closed his eyes, satisfied, knowing that this at least was a second thing they shared. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 0\. I got a prompt for Hurin and Gelmir interacting without Fingon being there, and I couldn't resist making a part 2 to this fic.

Gelmir woke in Fingon’s bed, which was unusual enough in itself. Usually he would creep out after Fingon had fallen asleep, to spare him the awkwardness of dealing with curious servants the next day. However much he usually wanted to stay – however much he craved the idea of being able to spend an entire night in Fingon’s arms – he tried to make it back to the barracks when he could. Even when Fingon rolled his eyes, and ruffled his hair, and kissed him, saying, “You don’t have to steal away like a thief in the night, Gelmir”, Gelmir considered himself wise enough to know it was for the best.

Usually he really was wise enough.

But the night previous had been enough to prove to him that his wisdom was, at best, sideways, if not entirely absent. His brother, back when they had been stationed together, would sometimes grin at him after a night of heavy drinking, and as Gelmir nursed his aching head, say, “Cockeyed your judgment there, little brother?”

This morning Gelmir woke in the king’s bed, in the king’s bedchamber, and rolled over to come face to face with cockeyed judgment.

Húrin snored.

Gelmir sat up quickly, looking at once for Fingon, who was conspicuously absent. Desperate and confused, Gelmir began to feel around in the bed for Fingon as if he might be caught in a sheet wrinkle somewhere, like a lost earring. He stopped himself when Húrin let out a huff of air like a horse on a cold morning, and rolled over.

“Eru Ilúvatar,” said Gelmir under his breath, and began to count the ways his brother would be ashamed of him.

“Are all Elves this prayerful?”

“What?” snapped Gelmir.

Húrin turned over on his side and looked at him through a cracked eye. “Fingon doesn’t usually pray in the mornings, but I thought maybe it was different for you layfolk.”

Gelmir tried to sort through which thing to be offended and horrified by first – the fact that Húrin knew what Fingon did most mornings, or that this Secondborn lump had called him ‘layfolk.’ He settled for something else entirely.

“Did something crawl into your mouth and die during the night?”  

“Maybe it was your prick,” Húrin shot back, apparently unimpressed with Gelmir’s glare, and the level of discourse reminded Gelmir how very young this Man was.

He straightened himself and tried to recall that he was a soldier, an Elf, and an adult. “I’m pretty sure we did not get that friendly,” he said with dignity. “Where is the King?”

“He had to get up early and meet with his captains,” said Húrin, yawning and sitting up himself to roll out his shoulders. Gelmir resisted the urge to recoil. Húrin was highly furred.

Gelmir had every intent of getting out of the bed, swiftly locating his clothes, and making his way to the barracks to recover his dignity before he had to take the recruits at the noon bell, but instead he found himself saying, “How often have you been to his bed, anyway?”

* * *

Húrin’s head felt stuffy and full of sand, and he had been hoping to enjoy a peaceful and pleasurable morning in bed with Fingon, as the King sometimes allowed him in the days they had been out in the field with the scouting parties. But instead he was stuck with this scowling Elf who was nowhere near as pretty as Fingon, and who appeared to want to kill him. He knew that many of his kind found the Elves fair beyond reckoning, but as for himself, he found most of them too spare and spindly and distant for his taste. Fingon, with his broad shoulders and solid muscles, and his quick smile and bright eyes, was the exception that had turned Húrin’s head and heart. Gelmir, meanwhile, was all string and sour looks, and very skinny for all he had brought his pike down with enough force to badly bruise Húrin’s wrist the night before. Húrin found him wholly undelectable.

And now he was asking questions that Húrin was in no mood to answer.

“How many times have you?” he retorted, and Gelmir looked somewhere between offended and smug.

“None of your business.”

“Then my answer is none of yours,” said Húrin. “You were nicer last night.” It was only partially true; while Gelmir’s glares had shifted in the direction of ‘still enraged but aroused’ by the middle of their endeavors the night before, the only time he had approached ‘friendly’ was after Fingon had fallen asleep, and he had exchanged a few murmured words of mutual understanding with Húrin. But now all that appeared to have been left by the wayside.

Gelmir sighed heavily and said something under his breath.

“I speak some Quenya too,” said Húrin, trying the language on his tongue, though he knew his accent was atrocious. “Though I haven’t heard that saying about sated pricks and open minds. Is that an aphorism?”

“A crude one.” Gelmir looked startled, then embarrassed. “Who taught you Quenya?” he began, and then quickly said, “Never mind, I can guess,” even as Húrin answered, “The King.”

“Of course,” said Gelmir glumly, in Sindarin once again, and Húrin tried to stretch the crick out of his neck.

“I bother you that much, do I?”

Gelmir looked more tired than angry now. “You shouldn’t,” he said, and Húrin was a little surprised at the resignation in his voice. “It’s not like I am unused to the idea that he is not mine alone. Or even mine at all.”

Húrin scrutinized him. “You love him,” he pronounced, when it became clear.

“Who would not?” snapped Gelmir.

Húrin shrugged. “True,” he acknowledged. “And so you resent him having another to love and protect him? Do you not believe his heart big enough?”

There was sudden sadness in Gelmir’s eyes. “He has a great heart,” he said softly. “But it is forsworn, and for all his welcome and affection, it is utterly untouchable by one such as me. Or you.” The palpable pain in the Elf’s voice was enough to move Húrin, and he found himself reaching out to cover Gelmir’s lean hand with his own, feeling suddenly warmer towards the Elf.

“Th’art lucky,” he said gruffly, “for him to cherish you as much as he does, and you must be dear to him indeed to be so trusted. I am but a blink to him; you have known him far longer.” He squeezed Gelmir’s hand and attempted humor. “And you will be around far longer than I will, after all. Soon I will be naught but a memory of an awkward climax between the king’s thighs, eh?”

Gelmir let out a surprised snort, and Húrin grinned at him.

They sat in relatively companionable silence a while, their hands still touching, and Húrin ruminated on the queerness of sitting naked in bed and holding hands with a man who had tried to truncate him with a pike the night before.

“You are a strong lad,” said Gelmir at last. “How do you feel about helping me harass some green recruits over the noon hour?”

“Will they have pikes?” said Húrin at once, and Gelmir laughed, an oddly appealing sound.

“They’re not ready for pikes.”

“Then aye, I will join you.” Húrin chewed his lip thoughtfully and looked at Gelmir out of the corner of his eye. His blood always flowed strongly in the morning, and it was starting to twitch parts of him in ways that could obscure the risk of being yelled at by an angry, sour-looking Elf who might still want to kill him. “But we have some hours before noon, and a very large bed…and you haven’t put your clothes on yet.”

Gelmir stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Húrin shrugged. It was worth a try. “I don’t know. How would you feel about trying to make Fingon the jealous one for a change?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Let us remember that Hurin is like 19 here, and canonically has the huevos to challenge Morgoth himself, so I think it's not out of line to think he would totally be bold and horny enough to try this.


End file.
